


Not Your Garden Variety Mosquitos

by LogicGunn



Series: Your Attention [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Angst, Guide Rodney McKay, M/M, SGC, Sentinel John Sheppard, Zoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn
Summary: John falls into a zone offworld, and nothing Rodney does can snap him out of it.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Series: Your Attention [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848436
Comments: 23
Kudos: 109





	Not Your Garden Variety Mosquitos

_“Doctor McKay to the gate room.”_

Rodney’s already rushing out of his office when the request comes through the base-wide PA system. He felt it the moment the wormhole engaged; there’s something very wrong with John. 

Turning a corner in the corridor, he bulldozes his way through crowds of people, overtaking a group of marines in their civvies, no doubt back from a night out in Colorado Springs. The elevator is too far from this floor and heading even further away so Rodney takes the stairs, the rapid tap-tap-tap of his footsteps echoing around the stairwell as he flies down ten levels in under a minute. At the bottom he throws the door open and scrambles into the corridor, bumping into the emergency med team and careening off the wall. Doctor Fraiser sets him straight and pushes him on ahead of the gurney, and the tacit acknowledgement that John will need Rodney more than her does nothing to calm Rodney’s thumping heart. 

He can feel John taking up space in his mind, but there’s something entirely too slow and dull about their connection, like John’s _there_ but not quite _here._ The men on duty are smart enough to get out of Rodney's way as he bursts into the gate room, just in time to see John being laid on the ground by Major Teldy and Doctor Porter. Captain Vega and Sergeant Mehra are walking backwards down the ramp, their P90s trained at the event horizon, index fingers on their triggers. Teldy calls for the iris, and it shutters into place, just in time if the flurry of thunks assaulting the other side is any indication. 

General Hammond calls for a report, but Rodney only has a mind for John, who’s lying on the ground in his gear, eyes fixed and unblinking. If it wasn’t for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Rodney would think him dead. 

“What happened?” he asks as he falls to his knees next to John’s head. The urge to touch is overwhelming, but he learned the hard way that rushing in without getting all the information first can be hazardous to both him and John. 

“We disturbed a nest two klicks north of the gate,” says Teldy in clipped tones. “Some kind of giant insect life. As soon as they woke up they started humming and clicking. The Colonel fell into a zone.” 

“Did anyone try to get him out of it?” 

“There wasn’t time. The insects rushed us. It was all we could do to carry him back to the gate.” 

Rodney spares a glance at the four women who are looking at John with worried eyes. Mehra has a nasty looking gash on her arm, but she’s still popping her gum so it can’t be bothering her that much. Vega’s holding her gun so tightly her knuckles are white. Teldy is kneeling at John’s feet and Porter is unzipping his tac vest as per protocol. There’s a clear but pungent viscous substance covering his neck and the top of his vest, and Porter tries unsuccessfully to wipe it off with her sleeve. 

“Okay,” says Rodney. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and leans over John. “Honey, you’re home,” he says, watching John’s eyes for any sign of recognition. When that doesn’t work, he cups John’s face with both hands and tries again. “Snap out of it, John.” John blinks, once, twice, but there’s no other change. He’s fallen into a zone a few times since they bonded but it’s usually only taken a word or two in his ear or, at most, a brush of fingers across his jaw to pull him back. Rodney’s surprised that he’s not responding at all, but John doesn’t like a lot of PDA, especially in front of superior officers, and so he's reluctant to do much more in the middle of the gate room. 

He turns to Doctor Fraiser, who’s maintaining a respectful distance. “Can we get him to the infirmary?” 

Frasier nods and directs her medical personnel to lower the gurney and roll John onto it. Rodney stands back, allowing them access to his sentinel, knowing that if it was the other way around that John would be struggling to have to allow them to touch his guide. He wants desperately to follow the gurney, but he’s going to have to get more information from Teldy if he’s going to be effective. Whatever’s affected John is clearly something the sentinels of the SGC have never encountered before. 

Rodney watches the medical team push John out one door then follows SG-3 out the other and up the stairs to the debriefing room. He takes a seat at the end of the table, opposite General Hammond, and tries not to be too aggravating as they wait for O’Neill to arrive. 

“So, let’s take it from the top,” says Hammond. 

Teldy opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by Colonel O’Neill, who hip-checks the door open and comes in carrying a tray of coffees. “Sorry I’m late. I thought we could use these.” He drops a coffee down in front of Hammond and one in front of Rodney, then dumps the tray in the middle of the table and grabs a cup for himself. The four women of SG-3 help themselves as he sits in the chair next to Rodney, bumping Rodney’s bouncing knee under the table in solidarity. 

“Alright, people,” says Hammond. “What the hell happened out there?” 

“Sir,” says Teldy. “We went through the gate to P5J-112 at 0830, arriving on the planet pre-dawn. Doctor Porter found signs of human habitation to the north of the ‘gate and we followed an overgrown path through the forest for approximately two klicks. We found ruins but realised too late that they were in the middle of some kind of nest. Everything was covered in webbing and clusters of chitinous eggs. We tried to sneak out but they woke up, came right for us. They were making these buzzing and clicking sounds, some kind of communication between each other. The Colonel fell into a zone so we grabbed him and ran, and the insects chased us back to the gate.” 

“I assume these weren’t your garden variety mosquitos...” says O’Neill. 

“No sir, they were the size of a large dog with a wingspan twice as long. Lots of legs, lots of eyes, a hard carapace, and pincers as big as my forearm. We were lucky the forest was too overgrown for them to fly or they would have caught up with us. They weren’t so quick on their feet.” 

“So there was clicking and buzzing,” says Rodney, twirling his coffee cup. “But nothing visual. Did they touch him?” 

“Not that I saw, Doc. We got him out of there right away.” 

O'Neill turns to Rodney. “What are you thinking, McKay?” 

“I don’t think it's a normal zone,” says Rodney. “It feels...different.” 

“Different, huh?” says Hammond. “Care to expand on that, son?” 

“It’s less like he’s hyperfocused on one thing and more like he’s unable to focus on anything. There’s a disconnect of sorts-” 

Rodney’s interrupted by the ringing of a phone on the wall. O’Neill gets up to answer it, leaning one arm on the wall. “Sure thing, Doc. I’ll tell him.” He drops the phone into the cradle. “Doc Fraiser says she’s found something,” he tells the room at large. 

Rodney’s already out of his chair when Hammond dismisses them all. 

*** 

“We found it when we tried to remove his gear,” says Fraiser, holding up what looks like a massive and barbed wasp’s stinger. “It was embedded in the intercostal space between his seventh and eighth ribs. He’s very lucky it didn’t pierce anything vital. We’re analysing the fluid content now, but-” 

“I think it’s a paralytic,” says Rodney quickly. 

“Why do you say that?” asks Fraiser. 

“I don’t think he’s unconscious, I think he’s paralysed and whatever was in that stinger is blocking his access to his senses. I can feel that he’s...there, but it’s like he’s locked up inside his own head. I can’t bring him out of it because he can’t hear me or see me.” 

“Well shit,” says O’Neill. “How are we going to break him out of it?” 

“Actually,” says Fraiser. “If it’s a biological paralytic it should metabolise out of his system.” 

“So we just wait.” 

Rodney looks at John, lying motionless on the hospital bed, hooked up to various monitors and recording devices, the steady blip-blip-blip of his heart loud even in the busy infirmary. He looks so vulnerable in the hospital gown and blankets, his hair matted with sweat and his hands resting curled up by his sides. His eyes are wide open but fixed straight ahead, blinking periodically but unaffected by stimuli. Rodney feels helplessness overwhelm him and has to sit down in the chair by the bed. His sentinel is blocked off from him, and in his distress, the creeping wrongness that caused him to run out of his lab penetrates his defences and starts to overpower his resolve. He grabs hold of John’s hand, cold and clammy, and clings on to it as he desperately combs through everything he’s learned about sentinel/guide bonds, searching for anything that might help him cut through the fog of John’s mind. John has always responded to him quickly, no matter how badly he’s zoned. For him to be immune to Rodney’s touch is a slap in the face. 

Rodney sits by his side for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon when Doctor Fraiser comes in to do another round of checks. She tests his body’s involuntary reflexes, gets excited when she’s successful in triggering both an ankle twitch and a strong enough bicep reflex that his entire arm jerks to the side. 

“It looks like it’s starting to metabolise,” she tells Rodney, but he can’t get excited about it. He still feels the wrongness in his mind, like their connection has been interrupted and he can’t break through. That John’s nervous system can bypass the brain when hit with a hammer isn’t actually progress as far as he’s concerned. Feeling despondent, he heads to the mess to get a coffee, accepts a jam tart in a paper bag from the Mess Sergeant who briefly squeezes his arm in solidarity. John is popular among the military men and women on base, his easy smile and effortless charm draws people to him like bees to nectar, and a surprising number of people nod affectionately to Rodney as he heads back to the elevator. 

It happens slowly, so at first, Rodney doesn’t realise what’s going on, but the feeling of John creeps back in increments until Rodney looks down at his sleeping form and is hit with a wave of possessiveness so strong he has to sit down again. It’s familiar and comforting and warm, a feeling that Rodney gets from John from time to time; when they make love, when John smells Sam’s perfume on his shirt after a (completely platonic) hug, whenever (or so John says) his ass gets checked out by a member of the military and John actually growls out loud. Relief floods over him and he takes John’s face in his hands and whispers “wake up”. 

John doesn’t move, so Rodney says it louder, and louder, and louder still, all but slapping his Sentinel's face. The arrival of Sam interrupts his impending panic attack as she bolts through the infirmary doors and stops, a little winded, at his side. 

“Hey Rodney,” she puffs. 

“Hi, Sam.” 

“Sorry I took so long to get here. I was topside when I got the message.” 

“I still can’t reach him,” says Rodney quietly, as he brushes John’s bangs to the side. 

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Talk me through everything. Top to bottom. We’ll figure it out.” 

So Rodney tells her what Teldy told him and O’Neill and Hammond, what happened in the gate room, what Doctor Fraiser found lodged in his chest, and the change in what he can feel as the paralytic wore off, no detail spared their scrutiny. 

“Hold on, back up. The substance on his tac vest. Has that been analysed?” 

“I...I don’t know.” 

“You stay here, I’ll go find out.” 

Sam squeezes his shoulder again and steps out of the cubicle to talk to the medical staff, leaving Rodney holding onto John’s hand. He keeps trying to reach John, smooths his hands up his arms and under the sleeve of the gown, presses their faces together and kisses him on every uncovered inch of skin, talks to him in increasingly loud tones, and he’s all but shouting in John's ear by the time Sam comes back. 

“Rodney, they found some biochemicals in the sample from his vest. Pheromones to be exact.” 

Rodney doesn’t understand the significance. “I’m an astrophysicist, not a biologist,” he says. 

“They’re excreted hormones that are used in the animal world to communicate. By smell.” 

“Oh my god. If he was sent into a zone by a smell-” 

“Then maybe a smell is what he needs to be pulled out of it?” 

“Sam, you’re a genius!” 

Sam smiles at Rodney’s praise. “So. Ready to get sweaty?” 

“Uh...what are you going to make me do?” 

“I’m thinking some circuit training then some weights in the gym.” 

“You want me to work out?” 

“There’s scientific evidence that we respond biochemically to our partner's sweat. If anything can get John out of this, your stink is probably it.” 

“Oh, that’s just gross.” 

“You’ll be thanking me this time tomorrow when he’s sitting up in bed eating jello.” 

Rodney huffs indignantly but concedes her point. He’ll do anything to get John back. 

*** 

“You really need a shower, buddy,” are John’s first words when he wakes up. For maximum pungency, Rodney went to bed after his workout to allow the sweat time to ‘mature’. He’d barely limped into the infirmary when John woke up, a little confused and disoriented, but healthy and strong and, most importantly, tracking. Rodney gives him a weak smile and sits in the chair, heedless of his stench, relieved by John’s recovery but exhausted, both from the exercise regime that Sam put him through and the worry that kept him awake all night. 

“How are you feeling?” Rodney asks when Doctor Fraiser is done with her evaluation. 

“I’m a bit sore,” says John, reaching out for a water cup. 

“Ribs?” asks Rodney, pushing the cup closer. 

“Yeah.” 

“You should see the stinger they removed from your side.” 

“Stinger?” asks John. “Fuck. I thought I dreamt them.” 

“The bugs?” 

“Yeah. They were massive. I _hate_ bugs.” John takes a sip through his straw and looks up at Rodney, sitting slumped in the chair. “You okay?” 

“Please don’t do that again.” 

“I didn’t mean to-” 

“I couldn’t reach you. It was like you weren’t really here.” 

“Rodney-” 

“John, I-” 

“Shhhh. C’mere.” 

“What?” 

John shuffles to the far side of the bed and lifts up his blankets. “Get in, my smelly guide.” 

“I should shower.” 

“Not yet.” 

Rodney looks around the room, but all the staff are occupied with other patients. He looks back at John, who has a big grin on his face, and relents. He sits on the bed and swings himself in, boots still on and jacket zipped up, and presses against John’s warm body. John kisses the top of his head, and he feels himself relax in his arms, exhausted but oh so satisfied to feel their connection thrumming with life. 

“Just for a minute,” says Rodney. 

“Mmmm,” says John. “Just a little while.” 

*** 

Rodney picks up the Berretta in trembling hands. “I don't understand why I have to carry a gun when there are three generously armed military members of the team. You’re a sentinel and the baddest ass I’ve ever met. Stackhouse and Markham are big, scary marines with a greater muscle mass than your average Clydesdale Horse. I’ll be well protected.” 

“Every person that steps through the gate has to be armed, and for good reason,” says John. “What if something happens and we get separated? What if all three of us get killed? You need to be able to defend yourself.” 

“If all of you go down then I wouldn’t stand a chance anyway. Can I just-” 

“No. If you don’t pass your handgun proficiency then the four of us are grounded.” 

Rodney pauses at that. John’s been assigned his own SG team – SG13 (“What? Why thirteen? We’re at least a two!” “They’re not numbered in order of importance, Rodney.”) – and Rodney sent Hammond a twenty-five-point essay on why, as John’s guide, he was mission essential. Hammond agreed with his analysis and so John was given carte blanche to build a team. He chose Stackhouse and Markham on merit, pulling them from their respective teams with their team leader’s blessings. They both have extensive gate-team experience and proficiency in just about any weapon the SGC has ever encountered, including an award for best Zat'nik'tel marksmanship (Stackhouse) and best grenade accuracy (Markham). The caveat was that Rodney has to learn how to use firearms (P90 preferably, but when Rodney baulked at that it was downgraded to a sidearm). Rodney doesn’t want to let John down, but the thought of shooting a living thing has him a little uneasy. 

“You need to calm down,” says John. “Your heart is going a hundred miles an hour.” 

“Yes, well, I’m holding a weapon of bloody and gruesome destruction. I really don’t want to shoot anyone.” 

“Rodney, it’s my job to make sure you don’t have to, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ensure that you have, at the very least, a basic handgun for self-defence.” 

Rodney looks down at the gun rattling in his hand. “I don’t think I can.” 

John doesn’t look disappointed or surprised. “Okay, give me the gun.” Rodney hands it over, grip first. John turns and unloads it into the paper target at the end of the aisle, bullets in tight clusters between the eyes and through the heart. When he’s emptied the clip, he places the gun on the table between them and pulls out a Zat'nik'tel from the waistband of his trousers. “The first hit from a Zat will render an assailant incapacitated. Think you can handle that?” 

Rodney takes the Zat from John’s hands and it extends out at his grip. He turns and aims it at his own paper target, arms straight and steady. John comes up behind him and presses close against his back, adjusts his stance with his hands on his hips and leans over to whisper in his ear. “When we’re done here, I have something else for you to handle.” 

Rodney feels his heart race for an entirely different reason, and pulls the trigger on his Zat, blasting a cavernous hole through the target. “I can do this.” 


End file.
